


This Place Is Like Duran Duran

by innie



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-19
Updated: 2017-12-19
Packaged: 2019-02-17 03:52:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13068537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innie/pseuds/innie
Summary: Harry is ridiculous.  Merlin takes it all in stride.





	This Place Is Like Duran Duran

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Deepdarkwaters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/gifts).



> I owed Deepdarkwaters for a number of things - she knows what she did. Thank you!

"What we watchin'?" Eggsy asks as he pulls up a chair and treats himself to a gander at Merlin's workspace, completely uninvited. He has had the sense to bring shortbread rounds, so Merlin is a bit more merciful than he'd be with any other Kingsman. "Uh, guv, I thought it were Rox gettin' this honeypot, on account o' the mark bein', y'know, a novice?"

Well, that was surprisingly tactful for the boy who'd high-fived him exuberantly (and poked Harry's middle and crowed something about _gettin' it good_ ) upon learning of their relationship. But his question still stands; there's no real reason for Harry to be on his knees, looking up at the mark - the young, virginal mark - through his lashes. From the camera feed from dressing room one, he can even tell that Harry used the volumising conditioner this morning, damn the man.

"Harry," Merlin says with some asperity, "appears to be trying to keep his hand in."

Eggsy's concerned look is sweet, even appreciated, but unnecessary. "Guv, his hand's in all sorts of places."

"Indeed." Harry is the last word in tarts, after all, and turning some poor boy's head to make him reevaluate his own sexuality is definitely in the cards.

Eggsy's mouth is full of the shortbread that is clearly Merlin's, but he manages to enunciate, Demosthenes and his marbles writ chav (as Eggsy never fails to self-identify, with a streak of perverse pride). "Fuckin' hell, how big's his hair?"

Merlin perks up at that; his bite of shortbread is tender instead of vengeful. If Harry is going to be putting on shows, Merlin is going to have no compunction about spilling his behind-the-curtain secrets. "Y'should have seen him in the eighties, lad. _King Kong_ would have lost a hand in there."

Eggsy snickers, spraying crumbs like a crop-duster. "For a gent that well-educated, you'd think he'da learnt that straightenin' his curls was only gonna make his hair longer."

"You would think," Merlin agrees fondly. Harry must have missed that day of Truly Obvious Facts in primary school, but he'd been top of his class in self-esteem; he was sure he was irresistible, and somehow Merlin found himself agreeing that he needed a ridiculous peacock in his bed at all times. "Ask me no questions about Harry and mascara, and I'll tell ye no lies."

Eggsy's eyes get absurdly round before laughter narrows them to joyous, emerald crescents. "No way - wait, who's that?"

 _That_ is Andrew, who looks like the child he and Harry might have had, given the lad's thick black hair and luminous brown eyes. "Andrew, one of the actual tailors employed by Kingsman." The mark looks profoundly unhappy to be confronted with another example of male beauty within the close confines of the dressing room. "Harry knows enough to take a man's measurements - seductively, the giant prat - but Andrew takes care of the cutting."

Andrew turns, and finally the camera can capture his face. Eggsy whistles and says, "Fuck off, this place is like Duran Duran, all you hot tailors runnin' round. I'm bettin' you can do it too?"

"What, tailoring?" he asks, absurdly touched by Eggsy's implied compliment. "Enough to make myself a tearaway suit that lasted all of five minutes on me."

That's as much as anyone else is getting about his and Harry's first anniversary, even when the love of his life is pouting at being denied a treat that was never his in the first place. Merlin watches, attention caught, as Harry shifts modes, no longer being silently decorative and implicitly on offer; now he is actively solicitous and putting Andrew in the shade.

"Would the gentleman care to choose his lapel?" Harry murmurs, his hand applying the lightest pressure to what the mark has surely never considered erogenous zones.

"Is he _always_ dialled up to eleven?" Eggsy asks, too transfixed to get his next biscuit in his mouth.

"If not twelve." Harry's fixation on Jeeves and his Young Master is too long-standing for him to grow out of now. His electric reaction to the phrase _gentleman's personal gentleman_ had been, according to his retelling, as much of an epiphany as Saul's conversion. Harry is lucky he is so lovely, else he might tip over into inexcusable ridiculousness.

"That somethin' you learned here, tailorin'?" Eggsy sounds apprehensive, like he might be stripped of his knighthood for want of the sartorial art.

Harry finally steps back, pleased with himself, and Merlin smiles at the image on his monitor. "It was something useful to learn, and it engaged a different part of my brain, which made it restful. I haven't any claim to actual artistry like Andrew's."

"I've done the mendin' a time or two, sewed a button on for Dais," Eggsy says, evidently relieved. From out of nowhere, he produces a Dairy Milk bar. "Josie offered to teach me embroidery, said I got nice curves to my name." Eggsy must be hail fellow well met with all the support staff if he's infiltrated the lair of the embroiderers. More of the knights could stand to remember how many people are employed to enable their feats of derring-do. More knights could also drop by to share chocolate.

Eggsy's relief is nothing to the mark's, now that Harry has retreated and Roxy has entered the fray; the poor boy looks so ecstatic to be faced with a beautiful woman instead of a pair of beautiful men that he's basically putty in her skilled hands. By the time Harry is coming up behind him to drop a kiss on his head, Roxy's extracted all the information with which no one should have trusted a boy this green.

*

Harry has no shame at all and persists in turning the thermostat up so that he can lounge decoratively in his favourite home wear: navy-blue Y-fronts and a pink angora sweater. Merlin's had decades to get used to the sight of Harry so soft and unassuming and still hasn't managed it.

"Eggsy's crush on you might not have survived the height of your hair this afternoon," Merlin says, running his hand along one long leg lying invitingly across his lap.

"Cheeky foetus," Harry says, "to be so blatant in front of my gorgeous husband."

"I got my fair share of praise as well," Merlin reassures him. "He wasn't impressed that you're so cock-hungry that you'd horn in on Roxy's honeypot."

"'Ardent' sounds nicer, doesn't it, love?" Harry asks, cheeks pink. He's lying back, smiling, a nanosecond away from fluttering his lashes outright.

Merlin has no interest in resisting. "Too nice, perhaps," he says, kissing along Harry's jaw, darting up to put his lips to the deeper of Harry's dimples. "Though it would take a fool to turn you down."

All nine miles of Harry's strong, slim legs are sprawled like the branchings of a stag's antlers, and Merlin takes his time in letting his mouth traverse all that flesh. Harry's left thigh is particularly sensitive; those legs close like a steel trap around Merlin's shoulders when he bites down there.

Harry's mouth was made for smiling, but moaning Merlin's name comes a close second. He's got a hand around both their cocks when Harry's delighted smile trembles, a shiver rippling his lips. Harry comes in a rush, spunk coating his belly where the sweater has ridden up, and he's still twitching when he twists to kiss Merlin's cock, unfolds his limbs, divests himself of the pants clinging to his knee, and demands, "In me, now."

"As Sir wishes," Merlin teases, and Harry flushes so hot he puts the colour of the angora to shame.

"You darling man," Harry says. "I am always your personal gentleman." He sounds uncharacteristically vulnerable - he's always ardent but rarely sentimental - and he strains upward to catch Merlin's mouth with his own.

"What is it, my heart?" Merlin asks, running a soothing hand down Harry's quivering flank.

Harry's eyes are closed until Merlin kisses them open. "Nothing. Everything. Fill me up."

Merlin bites the tip of Harry's perfect nose, pulls at the silk of his curls, and pushes into his welcoming heat. "I endeavour to give satisfaction, Sir," he says, dragging his nose and mouth along the vibrating column of Harry's long throat.

Harry hums happily, unabashed now that he's got what he wanted, what he's been angling for the whole day. "You do. Oh, you do."

**Author's Note:**

> Duran Duran was Simon LeBon, Nick Rhodes, and three unrelated men with the last name Taylor: Roger [♡], Andy, and John.


End file.
